


Underneath the Floorboads

by Ffwydriad



Series: Just The Same But, You Know, Completely Different [6]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Gets a Hug, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Bucky Barnes-centric, Character Study, Clint Barton's Farm, Drabble, Family, Gen, Multiple Personalities, Team as Family, by team, clint barton's horde of animals, emotional stuff, i mean these four, psychological stuff, these precious precious four
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-06-06 17:28:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6763300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ffwydriad/pseuds/Ffwydriad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How James Buchanan Barnes spent <i>his</i> summer apocalypse.</p><p> </p><p>/Standalone but part of the JtSbD AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Underneath the Floorboads

**Author's Note:**

> look! it's an update! and by update, i mean a complete rewrite changing multiple aspects of the story!

He turns away from the display in the museum, the one that shows the Captain and his team. The face of Bucky Barnes stares back at him, but it’s an unfamiliar one. He can see it in the reflection on the display case, however. The face is undeniably his own.

(Order: Til the end of the line. Meaning: uncertain.)

[He had pulled the target out of the river. He had saved the target’s life. This was not going to plan. Needed to deal with mission deviation.] 

(Steve is priority one, rank designation: friend. Highest possible rank. Loyalty is owed.)

He turns away from the display case and walks out of the museum in to the crowd. Amidst all of the people he can tell there are two who follow him. There are faces he doesn’t recognize, with voices he doesn’t recognize, and yet he picks them out with familiar ease and they follow him, close but not too close. 

They might be Hydra, here to reclaim the asset and stuff him back in the machine (too cold too cold – must go back with them must must must] but Hydra seems more likely to spend soldiers than spies. He makes his through the crowd and down the streets to an abandoned place. He’ll do better against whoever the pair of them are in one of the tight alleyways, where he’ll be close but not in a frenzied and panicked mass of people.

(Civilian casualties are against set order parameters and must be avoided.)

He listens for the footsteps of the two followers. He can hear many, but the pair of them are silent. Trained spies or assassins, then. He’s uncertain whether that makes Hydra the more or less likely option.

“I dunno, Tash,” one of them says, and despite his silent footsteps he obviously doesn’t understand how to follow a target unseen and unheard. Perhaps he is a moron. Perhaps this is deliberate. “I think Rogers’ is really stretching it here. I’m not sure we’ll be able to get his friend back, you know?”

[Designation: Shield Agents. Standing orders: Do not reveal identity or mission. Maintain cover at all cost. Eliminate if necessary.]

(Designation: Friends of Steve. Standing orders: Do not injure or aggravate without direct assault)

He sticks close to the wall, not arming himself but readying for the pair of them to turn the corner and attack.

“I’m not doing this for Steve.” Voice two says slow, deliberately. “I’m doing this for James.” Her voice is familiar, very familiar.

[Target: Agent Natasha Romanov. Previous mission target. Standing orders: Eliminate.]

The Captain’s companion. The red haired woman. The other man is a shield agent, likely a current partner. Steve is the Captain, of course – but who did that make James? An unknown participant actively involved in the hunt for him. The lack of information was worrying.

He pulls out a knife and waits in the alleyway for the pair of them. They stop talking, which shows that the man isn’t a complete moron like previous analysis suggested, and he tightens his grip counting down to when they ought to turn the corner.

They don’t.

(Caution advised)

He turns around to see a blonde haired man aiming a bow at his throat and the red haired woman staring at him as she leans against the wall. “Long time no see.” She said, using a knife to clean under her fingernails.

“Are you here to kill me?” he asks.

“Do you want to die?” the man asks back calmly, interrupting his partner as she only just opens her mouth. His hand remains steady on the string, ready to fire at any moment.

[Survival is priority. Objective: Eliminate.]

(Negative)

[Survival is priority.]

(. . .)

[Survival is priority.]

(. . .)

Survival is priority. Elimination is not. The Captain wants the Asset alive, and the red haired woman will not disobey the Captain. Not if she is hunting him down so soon. “What do you want?” he asks, tense and defensive and planning his next move but not actively thinking of how to kill him.

“To save you,” she says, placing her own knife away and reaching out an open hand towards him. “Or more accurately, to help you save yourself.”

[Defenses lowered. Trust gained. Activate elimination plan.]

“Why?” he asks, holding the knife carefully. He just needs to duck under the first shot from the archer, slice open the artery, and then deal with Romanov. Simple fare.

“Well, Natasha here owes you from whenever you met in Russia, or something like that,” the man says. “And I happen to suffer from this horrible, incurable disease called ‘caring’ which has dragged me in to this mess.”

(Memory lost – recall events in Russia?)

[No mission reports involving Russia and Agent Romanov. Attempt at subterfuge by the moron. Continue with elimination plan.]

“I- I don’t remember Russia,” he says. “I don’t – I remember you – I don’t – three different missions – I never met with you in Russia – why is he – what-“

“Hey, _James_ , calm down,” Romanov says. “Breathe in. Breathe out. I don’t need you to remember, nor do I expect you to. We're not here for who you were, we're here for who you are.”

“I am nobody,” he replies, confused. “I am not a person. You have made a mistake, Agents, and one which may have cost you your lives.”

The man with the bow loosens his grip and the arrow comes sailing ridiculously fast. He grabs the arrow mid flight with the arm and crushes it. Suddenly, there is a small explosion of colored gas.

(Locate gas mask – gas mask not found- error, did not bring mask – mistake, we do not make errors)

He crumples down to the ground, but not before he makes sure to throw the knife at the archer.

* * *

There are flitting memories. 

Most of them are of blood, and of pain, and he is both the one holding the knife and the one under it. Sometimes he runs. Sometimes he stops himself. He stares at his own face and he can not recognize the way it has been twisted with emotions.

Others are of wandering, wandering through streets and deserts and jungles and the cold. He can see people in the distance, just a silhouette. He can never reach them.

A few feature the small blonde boy, or the Captain, or both, and they are one and the same despite the fact they share nothing in common. Still there is a sense within him which recognizes the similarity. The blonde boy is always smiling, even when he shouldn’t be.

Like all memories, they flit away soon enough to be forgotten once more.

* * *

He wakes up on a train.  His hands are not bound, and before he even opens his eyes he can feel from the seat and from the vibrations running through his arm that it’s a train, and from the fact he can only hear the breaths and heartbeats of his two captors, it’s not a very full one.

(No trains)

Neither of his captors is particularly worried, calm in breath and heartbeat, and assured in their power to take such a public form of transport and leave him completely unhindered. Perhaps they didn’t think the drugs would wear off so soon. Perhaps his moron theory is holding some more weight than he thought.

“Where are you taking me?” he asks, softly. No need to attract attention. Not yet. He opens his eyes and takes a good long look at them. The lighting is artificial, and outside is dark. Neither has any apparent weapons drawn.

“Which one are you, then?” Romanov asks, leaning forward. “The one from the Smithsonian, correct?” He stares at her face. What trick is this? “Hi, James. You’ve been out for a few hours.”

“A few?” The man snorts. “Try fourteen.” He shoots up in alarm. Fourteen hours, being dragged on to a train, surrounded by hostiles? Those were powerful drugs because there’s no way he would be asleep under those conditions. “Calm down. Calm down. You’ve only been asleep for five.”

“I- I don’t remember that,” he mutters. He’s had memory loss before – a lot of it – but has he had any without the cold in between?

(Affirmative Affirmative Affirmative)

Maybe. 

“Well you weren’t the one here,” the man tells him, leaning back to stretch out his arms. “It was – what did we call him again, Nat? Oh yeah – Sergeant.”

“I don’t understand,” he says. “How was I ‘not here’? Who is this other person?”

“Ignore Clint,” Romanov tells him. “He’ll only get you confused. We think that your personality has been fractured – that there are other people inside your head. Currently, you’re in control, but for those nine hours there was another persona in control.”

(Affirmative)

[Tactic: diversion. Ignore.]

“What do you want from me,” he asks, trying to figure out their angle. A lie to hide how powerful their drugs are, or to throw him off balance, or to set up something future, perhaps, except there’s a part of this story that makes sense.

“We already told you what we want from you,” Romanov tells him. “Remember?” And he does, the line outside the museum. We want to help you save yourself. More words which don’t make sense.

“Let’s start with introductions,” the man says. “Hi. My name’s Clint Barton. I shoot arrows, and I have a dog, and my favorite food is pizza. You can call me Clint.”

(Designation added: Clint)

[Information stored for future utilization]

“I don’t know how much you know about me,” Romanov says. “But you can call me Natasha.”

(Designation change: Natasha)

Their dialogue patterns are indicative of someone beginning a move on a mark. No, that is not quite accurate. They are indicative of someone beginning a friendship. He can’t figure out what there stance is, but it’s worth further investigation.

* * *

There is a girl who answers the door. She is small, and looks like neither of them, but there is something familiar shared between her and the pair. She looks tired, and messy, as if she had just woken up, and when she opens the door to stare at them, letting the dogs run out she seemed more annoyed than anything.

[Threat level: unknown. Evaluate.]

“No,” she says, and closes the door. Clint knocks again, as if he knows full well she is still listening. “I am not dealing with this right now.” The girl yells through the closed door. “It is two o clock in the freaking morning and I just want to lay here with the dogs and sleep, not deal with your actual goddamn Nazi bosses. Understood?”

Clint laughs, and Natasha rolls her eyes, and the door doesn’t budge.

“Come on, Katie-Kate. Kit-Kat. Kat-Kat-Katie,” Clint says, the nicknames rolling off his tongue. “This has nothing to do with Hydra.” There is a pause. “Okay, maybe a little bit Hydra. No more than thirty percent Hydra, guaranteed.”

[Shield agents know about Hydra. Eliminate.]

“Stop lying to her. I’d put it at around 73,” Natasha adds. “Come on, little hawk, it isn’t like we have anywhere else to go. Look at him. James, do the puppy dog eyes.”

(Order not understood. Clarify)

[Order not accepted; Unauthorized command; eliminate maximum priority]

He looks at Natasha sharply, confused. “I don’t know what you mean by puppy dog eyes,” He says, and the girl – Kate? – sighs overdramatically, opening up the door.

“I am going back to sleep,” she announces, but the door stays open, allowing them entrance. He looks to Clint and Natsasha, but they enter, smiling.

(Ally of Ally of Steve. Caution advised, but aggression not advised unless provoked.)

This place is some sort of safehouse, then. It fits several requirements, out of the way, well stocked, seemingly normal. The agent who guards it seems young. Too young to be living alone.

(Negative. Steve lived alone at approximate age.)

He enters the house. It doesn’t matter. He’s chosen to follow Natasha and Clint, after all.

* * *

“What do you want me to do?” He asks. Clint and Kate both stare at him. Kate’s expression is a mix of fear and surprise. Clint’s expression is either that of someone constipated, or someone trying to remember something.

“Natasha said,” He starts, and he uses that phrase frequently, “Natasha said that we weren’t supposed to give you anything to do. Said we were supposed to let you make your own choices, unless you’re trying to kill yourself or something. It’s some deprogramming method she’s used before.”

[Deprogramming. Removing mental codes. Unacceptable, but completely ineffective.]

He want’s to ask when she has used these before, given that Shield does not use programming techniques. He wants to ask when they met, in what may have been Russia, an encounter he doesn’t remember. Instead, he asks, “Where is she?”

“I don’t know the specifics.” Clint says with a shrug. “I think she’s with your buddy Steve.”

(Mission: Find Steve)

[Mission: Kill the Captain]

(Mission: Protect Steve)

[Mission: Kill the Captain]

He doesn’t know what he wants to do with this information. Should he ignore it? Try and go talk to the Captain about the mess of memories he had sent rushing forth? If this not following orders thing is meant to help, he can not see how.

(Without stated orders, follow predicted orders)

“I’m going to,” he starts, thinking, “going to get the eggs from the chickens.” That is a thing that is done, with chickens, after all. Anticipating orders is difficult, but this place is strange. The pair of them are strange.

“Have fun with that,” Kate says, but he isn’t entirely sure what could possibly count as fun with gathering eggs. Perhaps she’s being sarcastic, or joking, or both.

[Order not accepted; Unauthorized command; eliminate maximum priority]

He gets the eggs, holding the basket with the arm and gathering them from birdless nests very carefully. He feeds the dogs, of which there are many, all excited at the new person. He does everything he can think of, and still ends up with time left over.

[Options: Elimination; Rest]

(Standing order: “You need to take a break sometime”)

He walks aimlessly around the farm, staring at the trees, and the sky, listening to all of the sounds. It is hard to figure out what to do with free time. So much time, with so little purpose. It is wasteful; he should be frozen, right now.

He doesn’t want to be frozen.

* * *

There is a girl dressed in white with bright red hair and bright red hands, like blood. She stands in the snow, pale arms, pale face, dressed like a summer child. Her eyes stare at him, the color in her hair and hands standing out against the white blankness of the world.

“Save me,” she says.

“Save yourself,” he says. 

She reaches out a hand, and he grasps it. Or maybe it is him with the hand outstretched. The snow envelops them, but he doesn’t feel cold. He feels warm. Blanketed.

The girl disappears in to the snow and his hand feels empty.

* * *

“James,” Natasha calls out, from the hallway to the kitchen. He is sitting on the stairs, and looks down at her, just as she looks up. They lock eyes. “There’s food.”

(Nutrition is necessary to survival)

[Affirmative]

He doesn’t stand up. He should, and he can, but he doesn’t. Natasha doesn’t look away, but her gaze isn’t demanding. If anything, it’s curious.

“Why do you call me James?” He asks her. The Captain calls him Bucky, others by various code names, or just ‘the Asset’. She is the only one who calls him James.

(Asset Designation: James Bucky Barnes. James accepted designation derivative) 

“When I met you in Russia – or, when I met some version of you in Russia, you had been sent there to train us. For some reason, your programming began to slip. You helped me escape, from the Room, and we escaped together. You kept writing this phrase over and over, paying no attention to it. I’m certain that originally it was ‘My name is Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes’ with a rank number afterwards, but you wrote it as ‘Name is S James Buck Barns’ and that’s what I called you.”

For some reason, the anecdote seems fitting. A phrase written and rewritten, passed through memory until it bares so little connection to the original, a fragmented copy of what it used to be.

“Do you want me to call you something else?” she asks him.

“No.” He tells her. Whether that is because he can not think of a replacement or because he prefers the name she’s given him. “I’m not a hero.”

“No,” Natasha replies. “I saved myself. It’s the only way to get out of their grasps. The only thing you are is what you think you are. Everything else is secondary at best. I’m selfish, calling you something that means more to me than it does to you.”

“I don’t think you’re selfish,” he tells her. “Call me James.”

Natasha nods.

* * *

“Oh, so you finally picked out a name?” Clint asks, as they stand on the makeshift range. “That’s good. Names are important.” He lines up his shot, aiming at the far off target with water balloons taped to it. “It’s not like I was calling you anything before.” He loosens an arrow which flies to its mark with deadly accuracy. 

“Why not?” he asks. The balloon taped to the target explodes, leaving scraps of red elastic and pale pink paint splattered over the paper, the hay bale, and the grass.

[Ineffective target. Does not mimic proper human head.]

“Why yes?” Clint replies. “I’ve always been cool with pronouns. And descriptors. And nicknames.” He knocks another arrow. “I mean, who am I to choose your name?”

“I call you Liho,” Kate butts in. She fires two arrows down at the target. One of them hits a balloon, the other doesn’t. “After Natasha’s cat.” She adds in, when he stares at her. “Because she’s the only one who calls Natasha’s cat anything other than Natasha’s cat. And because she’s the only one who calls you by an actual name.”

“That’s stupid,” Clint tells her. He fires three arrows. “And you missed on that last shot. Only one of the balloons exploded.”

“Who cares if it’s stupid. He’s Liho now and forever in my mind. Gods know that cat sure isn’t. And be careful what you say, because I think we’ll find that I didn’t miss.”

Barton lets his bow drop to the ground, and they walk over to inspect the target. Of the five balloons, only four have been popped. Three shot by Clint’s arrows and one by Kate’s, but it’s the remaining balloon that draws attention. Kate’s second arrow lies with a bit of balloon and tape on it, the balloon itself lying on the ground, unpopped. Barton’s third arrow sits in the target, where the balloon would have been.

“I think Liho is a good name.” He says. The tone in his voice sounds half like a joke, and half like – well, he’s not certain what the other half sounds like.

Barton tosses the balloon at his face.

(Personal designation added: Liho)

* * *

There is a boy dressed in black who stands in a blank street, missing all details. His face is bruised and his hair is blonde and he’s long and gangly. His eyes are bright. He pulls the boy out of a cluster of people who have been punching and kicking him. The boy has fought back, but not well. The bullies turn to continue their assault, but he glares at them. They leave.

“You’re supposed to say,” he says. Pauses. “You’re supposed to say: save me.”

 “I never needed saving.” the boy tells him. “That’s all you.”

The boy runs off and he is left standing there. “I don’t need to be saved by your scrawny ass, you punk!” he calls out, and the boy turns around, grinning, even though he is too far away. There is a fire in his eyes and a gap in his teeth.

“Save yourself, then,” the boy says.

* * *

“They’re reforming the Avengers?!” Kate yells out. Confused. Shocked. “I thought you were a one-time gig. A use only in case of apocalypse team. Not, you know, a _job_.”

“Technically,” Natasha tells her, “We aren’t the Avengers. We’re an independent contractor through Stark Industries affiliated with various organizations such as the US government and the United Nations. We’ll be hunting down Hydra bases, trying to find Loki’s scepter.”

[Enemies of Hydra. Eliminate.]

(Standing Mission: Hunt down and destroy Hydra bases.)

“How long will the mission take?” he asks. Clint shrugs. Natasha thinks.

“We don’t know,” she admits. You wouldn’t think it, but she admits that often.  “We’ll be staying in New York for the duration. It might be a few weeks. It might be a few months. We can’t let Hydra continue to use the scepter. Who knows what they’ll do with it.”

He knows. All of them know. Nothing good can come from what is going to happen. They’ll have to leave.

“Chin up, Katie Kate,” Clint says with a laugh. “You won’t even be here alone this time, you have your brand new pet cat here with you.” He laughs, and Kate rolls her eyes, crossing her arms in front of her chest and puffing her cheeks.

“Meow.”

It takes him a moment to realize that he’s actually said that. The voice is his, deadpan, stone face, but he is certain that it is in fact a joke. He’s used jokes when undercover, but he is not undercover. 

There is a pause. Everyone turns to stare at him. Another pause. Incredible, boisterous laughter. Clint falls down to the ground, Kate keels over, and Natasha’s face distorts with snickering, gripping on to the railing of the porch to keep herself upright.

“James,” she says, half struggling to breathe. “Damn. You – you stay safe; you understand me?”

[Order not accepted; Unauthorized command; eliminate maximum priority.]

This is the first order he’s been given. A voice in the back of his head flags that. Stay safe.  He can tell it sounds like an order on purpose. Wonders how she expects him to react.

(Standing Order: “Just because you are a soldier doesn’t mean you have to follow every order blindly.”)

“Don’t worry about me,” he responds. Deflects the order. “You’re the one who’s fighting alongside Rogers. Come back alive.” That’s an order too. Has he actually given any of them orders, yet? Natasha smirks. He supposes that means he’s passed whatever this was. A test? Something akin to that?

“Will do.” Clint says, standing up. He blows a kiss towards the pair of them, and they head towards the car parked on the driveway at the end of the farm.

* * *

 

“Why do you use a bow?” he asks Kate. She takes a moment. They sit on the back of the elephant, and she aims for a target strapped to the roof of the house. 

[Inefficient weaponry, upgrade recommended]

(Agreed)

“Because Clint does,” Kate replies. “I was here alone, for a while, and I picked it up. Nothing beats practice.” She lets loose an arrow, which hits dead center. “It’s just another way to prove my obvious superiority to everyone in all fields ever.”

“Why does he use a bow?” he asks Kate. She takes a moment. Perches herself to stand up, and aims again for a different target.

“Because no one else does, I think.” Kate says. She lets loose another arrow, which is blown by a gust of wind, hitting the target slightly off. “He’ll talk about using it in the circus, which is part of it. But there’s no one else in the world who does what he does. It’s distinctive. Effective. At least, that’s what I picked up.”

It's – it’s something.

* * *

It is evening. They are sitting in the living room, feeding the dogs scraps of food, and eating scraps of food themselves. Somehow, this has become routine, and he doesn’t mind it. He feels safe here, now.

Outside, there is the sound of a quinjet descending from the air, and he drops his plate on to the couch beneath him, startled by the sudden sound.

[Hearing below proficient levels. Reflexes below proficient levels. Report for inspection.]

Kate stares at him, uncertain, but it is only a few moments later before she hears and recognizes the sound as well. By then, he has already started moving, and she makes no effort to talk to him, immediately cleaning up the plate and all evidence there is any human living in this house besides her.

(Accuracy of designation: human uncertain.)

There is a trap door underneath the couch and the rug, leading to a hidden room which lies between the main floor of the house and the cellar, hidden away. It hardly qualifies as a room, but it is tall enough to sit up in with a few inches leeway, more spacious than most hideaways, and more hidden given that the cellar door is outside and on the other side of the house. The place is bedecked with pillows and blankets and glowsticks, and knives and guns as well, not to mention likely outdated candy bars.

[Designed for comfort. Comfort unnecessary.]

He slips down easily, and Kate lays the rug back down, and pushes the couch over the door, leaving her food their so that the dogs will pile all over the hidden entrance. There is the sound of a doorbell ringing, faintly, and footsteps to the door. He stays silent, hand reaching for a gun.

“Oh crap,” Kate says, her voice muffled by wood flooring and distance. “Director Fury. Uh, sorry, I wasn’t exactly expecting you.”

[Nicholas Fury, Target, status: deceased. Deception.]

“No one ever is,” The man replies with a laugh. “The Avengers took a beating in a fight with Ultron. They’ll be heading here to regroup. I plan to be incredibly sneaky and spylike by hiding out in your barn, if you don’t mind.”

[Deception.]

“I don’t,” Kate says, and she sounds shocked. “I just – for one thing, I thought you were dead. For another thing – wait, is that how you perfect your entrances? Arrive hours early and hide out in people’s barns?”

“Typically it’s something of the sort.” He sounds like he’s laughing. He wonders whether Kate suspected it was anything else. “Most people are under the impression that I’m dead. I would like to keep it that way.”

[Target survived. Elimination orders stand]

How the hell had he survived?

“Well, you’re free to the barn,” Kate says, as if she was ever going to refuse him. “I don’t – do you want dinner or something?”

"No, I’ve already eaten,” he says. “The Avengers will come within the hour, and when they wake up in the morning, could you make sure to send Tony Stark my way?”

“Uh, sure,” Kate says. “I think there’s space in the loft if you want to sleep too, but –“ There’s a pause. “You know, I think I’m going to take a nap before they arrive. Maybe figure out who the hell Ultron is.” Fury laughs at that.

Underneath the floorboards, he cracks a glowstick and nestles himself up in blankets and pillows. It’s going to be a while before he’s out of here.

* * *

The Avenger’s arrival is marked by Clint yelling out, and the following clatter of dogs down the step, echoing through the space around them. Within moments, overhead, he can hear the gathered Avengers. He can hear Steve.

[Standing order: Eliminate]

(Standing order: Protect)

He considers bursting out of the floorboards at the gathered Avengers, announce to Steve that his search was in vain and offer to help them fight Hydra and whoever this Ultron is. In the same thought he considers bursting through and killing them all, even though shooting them through the floorboards would be much more efficient.

He doesn’t.

Clint slips him food after the Avengers have all gone upstairs to sleep, a few bottles of water, some sandwiches, and way too many packets of gummy bears. He doesn’t ask if he wants to come out, but he leaves the trap door open for longer than he should, an open offer before he shifts the couch back in to position.

He dozes, in and out, listening to them talk. They discuss what they will be do next. They’re fighting robots, apparently, and he’s never fought a robot, and it almost makes him want to jump out. But given everything, there will be robots later, and right now – well, he doesn’t know whether or not he wants to see Steve, but fights would be better when he isn’t constantly thinking about murdering him.

* * *

He dreams of blonde hair and costumed vigilantes.

* * *

When he wakes up, the blondes and costumed vigilantes have left.

“They’ll be fine,” Kate says, with a laugh. He’s uncertain as to whether the words are for him or for her. “They’re the Avengers.”

“They’re fighting killer robots,” he tells her. He’s not certain why exactly he’s latched on to the killer robots. The words come out dead and emotionless.

“I’m sure they do this on a regular basis,” she replies. Definitely for her sake, then.

“Are you suggesting that the world is imperiled by killer robots on a regular basis?” he asks. “Is that supposed to make anyone feel better in any way?”

She laughs at that. “I suppose not. They’ll be fine.”

“They’ll be fine,” he repeats. He’s not sure whether he buys that or not.

“I’m glad,” Kate starts, and tries to find the words. “I'm glad that you’re here most of the time, now. It’s weird, with the other one. I like you more.”

(Denial.)

“Who else is here? Clint and Natasha?” he asks, trying to figure out the meanings. Everything seems to make sense, but then there are phrases like these, which makes no sense.

“The other you,” Kate tells him. Oh, right, the other personalities. He still has trouble remembering that it is a thing. There’s something about it which isn’t quite real.

“I’m glad that you like me. Better,” he tells her. “I’m glad that I’m around more too.”

* * *

The boy aims a weapon at him – aims a bow, that’s for certain – and backs up slowly in to a wall, antsy, ready to fire at any moment.

“Are you hear to kill me?” he asks, and his voice is wrong.

“No,” he says. “I’m here to save you.” Or is it wrong, are those the boy’s words, the scene is off in every way, the dialogue torn to pieces.

“You can’t save me,” the boy says. “Save your fucking self.”

Save yourself. After all, what else can you do?

* * *

I brought you a present,” Clint says. He places a detached metal arm on the kitchen table, presumably from one of the killer robots which the Avengers had been fighting.

“Where’s Natasha?” They both ask, ignoring the gift. Clint pouts, crossing his arms and sitting himself down on the kitchen table as if that will earn him their attention.

“She stayed behind to help whip Cap’s new recruits in to shape,” he explains. Steals a muffin. Well, tries to steal a muffin and fails. Horrifically. The muffin cracks in to two pieces and lies on the plate, crumbling. Kate grabs one of the two pieces, and he pulls the plate out of Clint’s grasp to reclaim what remains of his poor, destroyed muffin.

“You should have stayed instead,” Kate says, eating her half of the muffin with pride. 

“Aw, I’m glad to finally see that you respect me, Katie,” Clint says with a smile, forgetting the horror that was the cupcake steal. “I am really great at training people, you know. I bet I could do just as well as Natasha.”

“Don’t be stupid,” he tells the archer.  “She meant, you should have stayed instead so that we wouldn’t have to deal with you.”

“Awww, nooo,” Clint whines, and he defensively grabs the severed robot limb from the table. “See if I ever bring the two of you presents again, or let you play with my hawk, which I would have told you about, if you had let me talk.” He marches off, holding the hand and whispering something to the line of, you’re my only real friend anyway. Kate laughs. He manages a slight chuckle.

* * *

When Natasha comes back, she is greeted by friendly smiles and high praise from Kate and him. Clint mopes around for a few minutes, but finds himself unable to keep up the ruse and joins in, celebrating her return home. 

The four of them hug, standing there in the front hallway, a messy, unorganized thing, but at the same time safe and warm.

She isn’t the same person he remembers first meeting. None of them are, but then again, he isn’t the same person he was then either. He’s not sure what he is, now.

(Personal designation added: person)

* * *

Kate goes in to town every week. She rides out on her horse with a saddlebag filled with bottles of excess goat’s milk and jams made from the wild berries that grow on the edge of the woods, and comes back with bread and cheese from cows, and seeds, and other things.

He goes in to town with her exactly one time.

It’s late December and there is snow on the ground. Tactically the ideal would be Jiji – the elephant has grown used to the cold, and it has more force to walk through the snow than a horse. But elephants grab attention, so instead when the snow gets high she pulls out a sleigh and looks at Bucky with pleading eyes.

“I am not a pack horse,” he says, but he is smiling. There’s no way that Kate’s horse could walk through the good foot of snow. Natasha is laughing, something about Russian winters. He takes the sled.

He trudges through the snow with ease, and his arm is covered with the thick jacket and gloves, letting him pass unnoticed as anything other than normal. Kate lounges on the sled, laughing, picking up snowballs and tossing them with deadly aim at the passing trees.

The town is not large, but it is a proper town. The roads have been cleared, kind of, mostly looking as if they’ve been shoveled instead of properly cleared. Kate waves to the people outside, and someone calls out, “Why, I do believe Carina Knight has herself a new beau.”

It takes him a minute to place the name as an alias for Kate.

“Why are you using an alias?” he asks her, quietly. Of all of them, she is the least of that. She doesn’t have a record for anything. She isn’t even an adult yet, as if that meant anything at all.

“We all have our reasons,” she whispers back, before engaging in lively chatter with a store owner, talking about this and that and nothing at all. He stands in the street and watches as stray snowflakes begin to fall down from the clear sky.

* * *

It isn’t that long after Natasha has come back that she has to leave again. This time, she doesn’t reach for the bright, electricity lined suit that marks her as the Black Widow – Superhero, instead donning a leather jacket and a blank tank top. She looks intimidating, dressed like that.

Clint just looks stupid.

“It won’t take long,” Natasha says. “No blood on our hands. Simple retrieval of an item. You can come, if you want.”

Kate gets excited for a short moment, until she realizes that they aren’t talking to her. He stares at them.

“You want me to go back to doing this,” he states.

“No,” Clint says. “We want to get some papers out of a secure facility. But wouldn’t mind the company, though.”

He goes with them.

It isn’t the first time. And it isn’t the last.

* * *

 The red headed girl has a chain that ties her to the bed. She pulls at it but all she gets are cuts on her wrist. He stares at her, kneeled down by the side of the bed, watching as she tries her best to escape from the bonds.

“I’m trapped.” She says. “Save me.”

He tilts his head. “They’re coming.” He tells her. “Save yourself.”

She breathes in. Breathes out. Slips her hand from the cuff and slides out of the bed and out of the room and out of the red in to the blackness. There are footsteps overhead, but they are not found.

No, that happens later.

* * *

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” he asks Clint, as they sit up on the roof. Allegedly, they are trying to realign the target up there, make sure they’re all firmly attached. Really, they’re just sitting up on the roof.

“Yes,” Clint says, leaning back against the shingles of the roof. “Do you remember it?”

“No,” he replies instantly, and pauses. “Yes?” Except that isn’t right either. “Maybe. As much as I remember meeting Natasha, in Russia.”

“Not at all then,” Clint translates, and laughs. “Don’t worry, it wasn’t a particularly memorable encounter.”

“When was it?” He asks. “What happened?” He has memories of the child Clint, out of focus as they are, but that isn’t a memory. He has no clue what happened, then. 

“Does it matter?” Clint asks, and he’s casual, as if he doesn’t care for anything in the world in that moment, except staring up at the sky, and talking.

“I guess it doesn’t,” he says, leaning back against the roof as well. “Does anything?”

“Now there’s the question for the ages,” Clint says, eyes drifting over the fluffy white clouds that dot the sky. “I guess not, if you think about it. But we still do things out of force of habit. I don’t know, maybe some things do matter, and others don’t.”

“What things would you say matter?” he asks.

Clint never responds.

* * *

He kills a man. 

Later, when they’re at the farm again, and he can breathe again, surrounded by the dogs, it hits him full force. He killed a man, a bad man, certainly, but he’s killed so many people and for once it makes him sick.

“I’m going to leave.” He tells them, sitting at the kitchen table, after he made lunch. “Are you going to try and stop me?”

“Don’t be silly.” Natasha tells him, looking up. “The first rule was always that we’d never tell you what to do. If you want to leave, then feel free.”

“Do you know where you want to go?” Kate asks. “What? Yeah, I’m fine if he goes, but I’d be a whole lot more fine knowing that he has a plan.”

He doesn’t hear the voices in his head anymore, the ones which relayed mission orders. He isn’t certain whether that’s because he can no longer hear them, or because they do not speak anymore. Most of the time, he likes it better, an empty head. Sometimes, he wishes he could still hear their advice.

“No,” he says, after a long pause. “But I’ll find out when I get there.”

After all, he needs to save himself.


End file.
